


Made and Used and Wasted

by Soupernabturel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2014 Castiel - Freeform, Aftercare, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Brothels, Crossdressing, Destiel - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, HIV/AIDS, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prostitute Castiel, Prostitute Dean, References to Dean/Other(s), Sexual Content, Sick Dean Winchester, Unsafe Sex, Victorian era, Whore Castiel, dub con/non con, implied bottom Cas, reluctant bottom dean, whore Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 21:39:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3585018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soupernabturel/pseuds/Soupernabturel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You should take better care of yourself Dean.” Castiel said, and gestured for Dean to raise his arms.</p><p>Dean was not quite so prideful that he didn’t accept help when he needed it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made and Used and Wasted

**Author's Note:**

> So...uh... guess who just watched Les Misérables??

Coins were thrown to the floor next to the small cot, a clatter of metal on hard wood as the John began to leave, re-buttoning his trousers without so much as a backwards glance.

 

“There’s your coin, whore.”

 

The words were familiar, and though spat in disgust, bounced off of Dean but he barely moved.

 

He kept his eyes closed, his body stretched too thin felt as though it had been run through a meat grinder. He lay still, listening as heavy booted feet grew softer and softer the further the gent went.

 

 _Good riddance._ Dean thought with a wet sniff. The cot creaked beneath him as he tried to roll from his stomach onto his back. _May the reaper fuckin piss on your corpse._

 

One more horse of the endless carousel of men who came to the Roadhouse brothel.

 

One less damn horse Dean would have to ride later.

 

Finally having worked the thin sheet off the cot up over his shoulders Dean realized he was shivering violently- as though his limbs had been plunged into a snow bank. He felt ill, but then Dean had always felt ill. From the age of sixteen he’d felt something foul inside of him, from the first man he suspected, a John Doe Dean could barely remember the face of now.

 

But at eighteen the strangers mark was still left upon him, a mark that Dean passed to every man who gifted his bed with his presence.

 

Dean pressed his cheek into his mockery of a pillow. His eyes had begun to sting again but he forced the feeling back.

 

He had twenty three shillings now that at least was a good thing.

 

Despite his exhaustion, Dean was acutely aware when footsteps stopped outside his door.

 

He held his breath, tensing, he didn’t have the energy to entertain another man tonight-

 

“Dean?”

 

Instantly Dean relaxed back into his bed at the sound of Castiel’s voice.

 

“Are you well?” the blue eyed whore asked with a concerned voice, entering the room as he shut the door behind him.

 

“Well?” Dean snorted as his fellow whore made his way quietly to his side. Unwilling to appear weak, Dean forced himself into a upright position, the ache in his lower back and ass bloomed like a thorny rose cutting into him. He only spoke after swallowing his yelp, biting onto his lower lip hard. “I’m ah-as well as a man like me can be I-I suppose.”

 

Castiel made a small sound, less than pleased with the answer. There was charcoal, Dean noticed, still smudged around the older man’s eyes, making them seem awfully bright, flecked like gems in the candle light. Yet that was the only sign of Castiel’s work outside the walls of the Brothel. Most nights, the older man would wear dresses and wigs with hats and makeup for his clients, in order to avoid the wandering eye of the police on the streets.

 

Dean never enjoyed it, seeing Castiel dressed as a woman, and though Castiel had never spoke ill of it, given a choice inside the brothel walls, he always wore shirts and trousers.

 

With a ragged breath Dean eased himself up further, bracing his weight with his palms flat down on the mattress.

 

Castiel frowned, his blue eyes did a quick trip along Dean’s body, his naked chest, the swell of where the sheet had fallen over his hips, before they returned to Dean’s face.

 

“You should dress, you're shivering.” The order came out gently, almost a caress in its own right, so at odds with the orders Dean was used to that it roused a small sound in his throat. Men usually had such harsh, abrasive voices, but Castiel had always been something other, though rough and gravel soaked he was (or at least had been) a learned man, a man with words to spare if you got him talking enough. Though he'd never raised his voice to anyone.

 

Did Castiel even make sounds when he was fucking? Dean found himself wondering. The walls of the Roadhouse were thin and yet Dean had never heard him on the rare occasions Castiel worked indoors.  

 

To be honest Dean wasn't sure if he wanted to hear Castiel be fucked by another man, even if it would be his only chance ever to witness Castiel in such a state.

 

“I'm cold.” Dean supplied simply, still shaking even though it was hot and sweaty in his room.

 

Castiel’s eyes were hard as he sat at Dean’s cot side, the frame protesting at his added weight. “I take it that your illness persists-”

 

Dean grit his teeth and almost snarled. “If you’re going to keep puttering on about a doctor Castiel-”

 

“I won’t,” Castiel interrupted him, holding up a placating, nail bitten hand that made Dean drop his hackles. “But only because I have exhausted the topic with you.” Castiel shifted then and picked up Dean’s shirt where it had been discarded on the floor, he brushed it off like a gentleman and set about turning it out right.

 

“You should take better care of yourself Dean.” he said, and gestured for Dean to raise his arms.

 

Dean was not quite so prideful that he didn’t accept help when he needed it.

 

“I am taking care of myself.” He said, once Castiel had pulled the shirt down over his arms and head, and moved on to other things. Dean hissed out a sigh as a wet rag met his raw scraped skin. He hadn't noticed the other man bring it in when he entered the room, but was none the less grateful.

 

Wordlessly Castiel lifted the sheet from Dean’s waist and set about cleaning the mess out from between his thighs. Dean winced and growled in the back of his throat when he had to raise his hips a little in order to Castiel to get to the ‘heart’ of the mess as it were.

 

Castiel made very certain for their skin not to touch, always keeping the cloth between his hands and Dean’s body. Dean appreciated the man's attempt at modesty, but they were far past that point as Castiel dabbed carefully at the mess leaking from Dean.

 

“Just knowing that every man who walks away from me, who uses me, has a little something to remember me by,” said Dean as Castiel wiped down the inner walls of his cheeks, being careful not to brush over his anus any more than he strictly had to. He knew just as well as anyone how tender and sore a man could be after a session. Dean made a rude gesture with his hands and leered at his older mate. “Perks me right up after a rough evening.”

 

Withdrawing, apparently satisfied with Dean's state, Castiel touched Dean’s elbow with a soft sigh. “You’re poisoning people.”

 

Dean swallowed, suddenly subdued. It was true, there was no point denying it.

 

Castiel was the only man, living or dead that knew the truth of Dean's affliction.

 

And yet he couldn't make Dean feel guilt for passing his curse to other men. There wasn't really anything he could do about it anyhow, if Mistress Ellen knew of Dean's filth, he'd be kicked out onto the street once more, not even good enough as a simple hole to fuck.

 

At least this way Dean had a roof over his head, food in his belly, a steady wage with a steady stream of customers, and the not so terrible companionship of the stoic and awfully patient Castiel Novak.

 

Life wasn't all that horrible, especially if Dean got a little revenge along the way.

 

Attempting coy in the sudden sobriety of the moment, Dean patted Castiel’s arm and cast him his most flirtatious smirk. “I never claimed to be an angel, Angel.” He added a wink for good measure. “And you can’t say half the men don’t deserve it.”

 

Castiel reacted as he always did with barely any inflection to his rouse smudged face. “Lucifer was an angel.”  He said quietly.

 

Dean laid back down, drawing the sheet over himself once more as Castiel turned and set aside his cloth, semen stained and bloody. Fuck, Dean would have to check himself tomorrow morning before the next bout of customers came in. With a pained wince he shifted down and across, rolling onto his side. Dean licked his dried lips, also cracked and bloody, keeping his eyes on Castiel who returned to his side, absent the proof of Dean's mistreatment.

 

“Man will fall as Lucifer fell.” Castiel's voice was quiet and regretful, as he spoke in his usual smoke addled riddles. Though nonsense his words made something inside Dean twist. “All of those who fall pay a price.”

 

“Don’t you think we’ve fallen enough?” Dean asked him, stretching out his pained limbs one after the other. “I’d let Lucifer himself fuck me if it meant the rest of my sorry life away from other men like him.”

 

Castiel arched a dark brow. “Men like him?” he asked.

 

Dean nodded his head in the direction of the door, of the outside world. “Men who take, and take and give no consideration to returning the favour.”

 

If Dean didn’t know better he would almost have guessed there was a laugh hidden in Castiel’s next huffed breath. “You’d rather lay with a man who was willing for _you_ to take _him_?” Castiel asked.

 

Dean hummed at the subtext of the other man's words.  “I’m hardly in the position to well… _choose_ a position am I?”

 

Castiel looked at him then, quiet, thoughtful. Dean always wondered what the other man thought in those moments, when he looked at Dean when he- cared for him. He wondered about him at other times to. What did Castiel think of when he was alone in his room. What paradise did he send himself to when locked in the unwanted embrace of an even more unwanted man.

 

Or perhaps the embrace wasn’t so unwanted. Perhaps Castiel preferred it that way, to be the giver, to be penetrated, to dangle on the end of a rich man's cock like some prized pup held by the scruff of his neck.

 

If Dean wasn’t broken he might have felt some sort of titillation at the thought of Castiel writhing and moaning wantonly as he was fucked into, possibly by Dean himself though he couldn’t imagine what the act would feel like.

 

Dean had only ever been fucked, not even given the passing fancy of a helping hand once the men were done using the end of him.

 

Reminded of his discomfort with an unfortunate twinge and a tremble, Dean patted the space before him and looked up at Castiel through lowered lashes. “Come, lay with me gorgeous.”

 

Castiel’s amusement was echoed in a smile and an exhale, but it was agreement none the less. He climbed into the bed in front of Dean, their faces close together. Smiling, Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel’s waist, drawing them even closer, enough so that Castiel could feel his shivering.

 

On Dean’s first night in the Roadhouse they’d laid like this, after Castiel had taken Dean though his duties, taught him how to please a man (without touching him, Castiel never touched him in that way. Because of Dean’s affliction or Dean himself, Dean had never asked). They’d curled up like this, pressed together and Dean had shivered then too- but for an entirely different reason altogether.

 

Close up Castiel’s own lips were as cracked as Dean's, raw from being licked and bit too readily, probably by his last John. Ashamed by the brimming of jealously in his gut, Dean closed his eyes and pressed his nose into the curve of Castiel’s neck and shoulder, bony, undernourished but still so lovely.

 

It was a comfort. Breathing in the scent of him. Like whiskey and something more exotic, something earthy, smoky- but none the less pleasing and overall familiar.

 

He could feel Castiel’s rib cage expanding out with breaths stronger than his own. Castiel’s arms too were wrapped around him, his palms flat against Dean’s shoulder blades, fingers spread like fanning wings.

 

For a moment, maybe even two, Dean could pretend that everything was alright. That he was lying in the arms of his sweetheart in some well kept home with a fire and food in the cupboards. It was a nice fantasy, one Dean had had many times, in his youth and the darker years after. Even now the dream was a form of solace for him, in the last few years or so the indiscernible blur of his sweethearts face had been exchanged for a hard jawline and ink blue eyes. The odourless fantasy replaced with the smell of hickory and whatever smoke managed to cling to Castiel's clothes for a time.

 

Smoke that as surly as Dean's illness was killing him, rotted Castiel's mind from the inside out.

 

Of course Dean didn’t realise he was crying until Castiel’s arms tightened around him, and a brief dry kiss was pressed against his temple.

 

Dean swallowed the sob that threatened to escape, and whimpered on a shaky exhale “C- _Cas_ -”

 

Castiel hushed him and moved one hand up into Dean’s hair, stroking the back of his head with long gentle fingers.

 

“Rest Dean,” he murmured, pressing another kiss this time to Dean’s cheek. His lips when they withdrew were wet with salty tears. Dean's tears, which he should have wiped away quickly with the back of his hand, but instead removed with the smallest flick of a tongue across pink skin. “I’ll watch over you.”

 

Dean hiccuped his next sob and pressed his own lips, less of a kiss then just simple contact, to Castiel’s throat.

 

They lay like that for an indeterminate about of time, but long enough for their heart beats to fall into a tired rhythm.

 

Slowly Dean let his eyes fall shut as he tried to control the last of his body’s shivers.

 

After a time there was no trace of his cold left, or at least not enough to pervade the endless numbness.

 

A numbness that was only broken by Castiel’s warmth.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ignore the fact that HIV/AIDS was not 'discovered' until the late-19th/early-20th century. If you can't, then assume that Dean contracted some other sexually transmitted disease that worked in much the same manner.
> 
>    
> Dean has contracted a weaker/earlier strain of the HIV virus that we know today, one that was passed through slaves/slave traders and prostitutes of the time, originating in West Africa.
> 
>  
> 
> Kudos are well appreciated <3 
> 
> [My Tumblr](soupernabturel.tumblr.com)


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